Experiments in Deduction
by just-another-sherlock-freak
Summary: John consults the most dangerous man he'll every know, Mycroft. Will he help him in his quest for love? Sherlock/John.
1. The fall

**A/N: This is my first fan fiction ever, let alone my first Sherlock x John. Please be kind and tell me if you want another chapter. (I have plenty…)**

"John, I'm sure that you're aware that my brother needs some extra care at the moment. Please do everything you can to cheer him up – and I do mean everything."

"What things do you have in mind?" I smirked, only Mycroft knew about my feelings for Sherlock. Being a man of the government, I was pretty sure that he would keep it strictly confidential.

"I'm certain you have plenty of ideas."

"But he's so hard to please, you know that, Mycroft." I tried to mask my disappointment, adding a whiny tone. Sherlock couldn't ever have feelings for me. He's too busy being, well, Sherlock.

"Who says it won't be different with you involved, John?" Mycroft asked innocently with a smile that had slid into the question. I shifted uncomfortably, letting it play on my mind. It could never happen. I re-arranged the phone in my hands in a bid to calm my racing heart.

"Have you seen the way he is? He could never-"

"Who could never what, John?" A delicious, deep voice spoke behind me; wrapping me in velvet so soft it melted my heart. I licked my dry lips, not wanting to think about it. It hurt too much. I ran a hand through my hair, tousling it carelessly.

"Nobody Sh-Sherlock, nobody." I cut the call with a sigh and turned around. My God he was beautiful. My breath caught in my chest suddenly, taking in every perfect detail of that sociopath's face. Sherlock eyed me suspiciously as I stared at him, helpless. He was wondering what I was thinking, I could tell. He gazed deep into my eyes then drifted to my mouth and in turn my chest, which contained fluttering butterflies. I felt a slight dampness on my upper lip and forehead, confirming that my feelings were true, not just a lust. I gained the courage to look back up and saw his eyes looking down, an unreadable expression painted on God-like features. After what felt like an eternity, he looked back up with a small blush across his cheeks. I held his defiant watch as he smiled triumphantly and strode out the kitchen.

I breathed out, grateful he had left. A cold sweat broke out across my body, showering me in uncertainty. I stumbled over to a chair and collapsed into it, my head swirling. Did he always have that affect with me, or is it new? Has he done that to me before? I couldn't recall ever feeling this way, but I didn't care, not at that moment. All I wanted was for my head to settle down and for Sherlock to come back through and to check if I was alright.

I slowly rose from the chair and went to the cupboard to get a glass of cold water. My trembling hand betrayed my act of calmness as the cup dropped out and smashed to the floor. My eyes dimmed, sending a whirl of nausea through me. My legs gave way to my weight and I too, crashed down. Seething pain ripped through my shoulder, exactly where the gun had punctured my skin. Glass tore through my jumper and planted itself into my flesh, slicing away at the muscle. I called out to Sherlock though nothing came out. My attempts at breathing were feeble as shock coursed through my body, and I stared, dumbfounded, at my shoulder before blacking out.


	2. A helping hand

**A/N: Hi guys, sorry I haven't uploaded a story for quite a while, I have been figuring out how to use this thing! Haha. Anyway, enjoy… ;) (Schools been tough lol)**

I waited outside the kitchen before I entered and was met by a muffled voice- his voice, talking worriedly in a hurried language that was hard for me to understand.

I spread myself out against the wall precariously, ready to intervene. I moved lightly, straining my body so I could hear everything that he was saying.

"But he's so hard to please, you know that Mycroft." My body went cold. _He_? _Mycroft?_ Why would John go to my brother for help, the "friendly" government psychopath? Help?

From force of habit I froze; fingers numb. With my brain drumming inside of its skull-cage, I took a cautious step back, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard beside me. My ears perked up as I continued to eavesdrop like an old woman. I could hear his breath sharpen. My eyes almost saw through the wall, pacing about on the phone, nervous yet excited. Who could make him feel this way? I wanted to know.

I carried myself weightlessly to where he was standing, his next words careless, desperate. "Have you seen the way he is? He could never-"

"He could never what, John?" Dumbstruck, he muttered some quick farewells and cut the call with a sigh. He raked a hand through his hair, creating a sexily messy style. My hand itched to feel those soft light curls, to smooth it down, to put every single hair in its place.

"Nobody Sh-Sherlock, nobody." He stammered - he wasn't usually this timid. What on earth was wrong with him? A pang of jealousy smacked me in the face; I wanted to be the one who made him feel like this. I want to be the one who made him tremble.

Startled blue eyes stared into my own as he whipped around, facing me. His breath got trapped inside of his windpipe. I felt his eyes trace my body quickly then settle for my eyes. He was helpless under my suspicious watch. I felt my eyes float to his mouth, an open, beautiful mouth. I could envision my own planted onto John's, the taste and feel rich in my mind. His chest was my next target, rising and falling heavily. Through my peripheral vision I saw a slight gleam of light on his upper lip and forehead. My mind numbed, black with the alien feeling that was bubbling up inside my stomach. I looked back up, my face burning. I struggled to keep my face emotionless as he held my gaze. Finally, my rope broke and a smile tugged at my lips. I strode out towards the living room to take my mind off it. These feelings must be crushed down, affection only gets in the way, and it is not convenient.

I sat on the chair, as far from the kitchen as was humanly possible. Swarmed in parasitic thoughts of me and John entwined together. Different positions and places danced around in my brain, making it impossible to discard. I was plunged into my mind palace unwillingly, so much so I only distantly heard John collapse to the floor with a gut wrenching shatter of glass. I yanked myself into action.

I took it all in as I dashed into the scene. John was lying on the ground. Blood was trickling into a small puddle around him – I found the source of the wound almost immediately.

Shoulder. Muscle torn. Would almost definitely need stitches. His wrist was already bruising – took the impact of the fall. Face pale. Rapidly losing blood.

I called out to him, half expecting a reply, half not. "John?" I crouched beside him, glass stabbing my knees. My hand smacked his face, lightly. "John!" Without thinking, I scooped his frail body up in my hands and took him to my bed.

I could feel the heat of his body against mine, the gentle breaths that caught every so often due to the pain; the knot of his eyebrows as he slipped on the edge of consciousness. I set him down, smearing blood on the covers. I checked him once more – hand shaking, sweat forming on his face as he fought against the blackness in his mind - then made my run to the bathroom to collect the first aid kit.

It was always stored in the cabinet – something anyone else would have forgotten. Most injuries that occurred around 22B Baker Street were either too minor or too severe for this usually useless human necessity. In my haste I knocked objects out of the cabinet that my confident fingers normally left untouched – John's razor, a bottle of painkillers. I took them too, deciding that John's pain threshold must be considerably less than mine.

My growing concern for him was killing me.

I reached the bed again. His breaths were more rapid now, his eyelids fluttering. His arm was still flowing blood. I could see him struggle as the unbearable burn of pain, however minor, streamed through his body. "John."

His hands were shaking now, so frail. His mind filled with the inconvenient urge to escape, self-preservation taking over as he flailed around on the bed.

I confidently placed two painkillers in his throat and tilted his head back. A flare of nervousness began rising and swimming in the back of my thoughts as he choked. I didn't know what I was doing.

I didn't know what I was doing.


End file.
